


Loki and Domesticity

by Lycianthara



Series: Loki and the Priest [6]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Domesticity, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, loki knows how to cook?, trans loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycianthara/pseuds/Lycianthara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki pays a a visit yet again, and refuses to leave his boy alone, despite all the chores needing to be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loki and Domesticity

It had been nearly a week since the god and his boy had sat down for dinner, the same day the water had been brought back. It was the only day off for his boy, and he wished to spend it doing chores. He needed to do his laundry, little as it was, do the grocery shopping and prepare several days worth of food. Not to mention airing out his bedding, but that was a luxury he could not often afford the time too. 

He had been sitting on his bed, counting out the meager cash and coin he had on his person and putting together coupons when the god marched through his door. As he had it then, he would be able to afford enough food to make for a few days, and when he got paid the next Thursday he would have to make time to go again. It left him missing a day of meals, however, he would push through it as he had many times before. The god stood in his room, watching him gather up his money and the coupons he would be using into his ragged homemade wallet.

“I suppose you already had plans for today? Just when I was going to take you shopping too..Such a shame..” The god sighed as he spoke, his hand coming up to cup his cheek with his full, rosy lips pouted. 

His boy scoffed. “Unlike you, Mr. Immortal Prince, I have to do my own household chores. Like laundry, and grocery shopping. So yeah, I have plans. And no, you’re not going to interrupt them. If I don’t go shopping, I don’t eat. I don’t eat, I die. I die, you lose the only devotee you got left. Asshole.”

The god feigned being hurt. Then suddenly, an idea came to mind. It was quite the idea, clever and had all the trappings of royal ignorance. Or was it magical ignorance?

“Why don’t I just magic the groceries here? That would free up some time to be with me,” the god said smugly. His boy sighed as he walked to his closet, pulling out his jacket. The weather had been uncommonly warm recently, but now the air turned bitter cold again.

“No. That’s called stealing. I don’t steal. Besi-” “You stole my heart though.” 

The boy deadpanned and shut his mouth. His listless eyes raking their way to the god. With utter contempt he whispered, “No.”

The god sighed in frustration, flopping onto his boy’s bed. His boy in the meanwhile had stuffed his wallet and keys into his pocket.

“I’m not staying, so you aren’t either. If you don’t bug me, maybe I’ll let you help me with my shopping and laundry.”

The god pouted before standing to follow his boy out the door.

In the supermarket the god had been the poster-boy picture perfect image of a gnat. All he did was annoy his boy with questions about the food he was getting, why he wouldn’t let his god handle it, why everything was so expensive, why are you buying the small milk instead of the medium milk. Endless questions! 

As they reached the check-out line the god asked yet another question, “Why are you using the self check-out? Let someone else do the work!”

The boy snapped and he rounded on the god, his hand less than an inch away from slapping the god. “If you so much as breathe another word in my direction I swear you will never be allowed near me again, do I make myself clear?” The god yawned in response. 

“You know you’re taking to empty air, right?”

The boy scrunched up his face in annoyance and marched to the next open register. With harsh movements he rang up his items and paid, just barely having enough change. Completely disregarding the god, he walked home and slammed the door in the god’s face. 

While the god certainly noticed his boy’s anger, he didn’t particularly care. He simply phased through the door to see his boy start cooking. 

“No no, now I can help. See, I do know how to cook. And you’re following book recipes I see!” The god waved his hand to the small book of written recipes his boy kept. “Allow me to do the cooking, you take time to rest.” 

The boy huffed, setting down his knife and spoon, allowing the god to work in the small space he delegated to cooking. 

The space wasn’t really much, just a table with a garbage picked boat stove, a small toaster oven from Goodwill, and a mini-fridge. There was no freezer, but during deep winter when the days were always below 30 degrees, he would sometimes splurge and buy frozen vegetable, simply putting them in a sack and burying them in a snow pile. It usually worked, no animals would raid the cache, and if he kept it off to the side enough, nobody would try to shovel it away. The doorman didn’t really care either, he thought it was genius. 

The god worked diligently, quickly cooking the food before he placed different servings in tupperware containers, which were then placed in the fridge. While he cooked, the small amounts of steam warming the apartment, his boy took his blankets and stripped them from the bed. He pulled on a length of rope he had running from his ceiling, hanging the blankets out over it. It created an opaque screen from his bed to his bathroom, the side of the room closest to the door merely containing the “kitchen” and his closet. 

Hands beating against the blankets to find an opening, the boy stepped to the other side, grabbing a giant spoon hanging from a wall rack. As hard as he could, he took the spoon and began to beat his heavier blanket. Small traces of dust and debris flew from the fabric, falling a single line on the floor. Returning the window side of the screen, he again beat the fabric. His god handed him a small broom from the other side, and he swept the dust into a small pile, before he piled it into the corner. He left the other much lighter blankets to the air, and his sheets would have to simply remain on the bed. 

“I’m still cooking, so do whatever you want. I’ll take care of your laundry,” the god spoke from behind the blanket-screen. The young man huffed, rolling his eyes. Just this once, he would let the god do his laundry. From under his bed he pulled out a small notebook, with a pen inside. Writing was the only hobby he could afford now, his other crafts just too expensive to maintain. He turned to a clean page and began to write.

~

I had been born in a small town on the border of Tevinter and Antiva, and until I was about 6 or 7, we stayed there. It is very difficult to raise a child, near impossible on the road. I still don’t know how the Dalish do it. Regardless of children, this town was frequented by Antivan merchants and ambassadors traveling to Tevinter. Likewise, Tevinters traveled the same way, sometimes meeting in the town’s tavern with their acquaintances to negotiate. 

My mother worked in that tavern, and we lived in a small room in the very back, behind and around the kitchen. She would do much of the cooking, her hands reaching for the spices she had long since memorized, and had tried to teach to me. Sometimes she would have to carry out the meals, and I would help, carrying a tankard of ale or a bottle of wine. Nearly every time a Tevinter was in the tavern, an elf in rags or looking scared out of their mind would be kept standing next to the door, or bar, or table. Slaves. The ‘Vints would always appraise my mother and I, seeing if they could buy us off the owner. Every time, she would refuse, saying we were too valuable. 

But one day, a magister passed through. He was traveling to the Free Marches, looking for an escaped slave. I don’t know why he would bother to follow an escaped slave. But he had appraised me as I had brought him a wine. Just as many others had, he demanded he purchase me from the tavern-woman. She refused until she saw the man gather fire within his hand and threaten to burn down the tavern. I was let go, and it was not until later that night I saw my mother again  
I had been hauled off with him, walking behind his carriage with the other slaves. But the magister grew ill from the bumpy road, and ordered us to make camp. So we did, I following orders diligently. But as the moon Satina crept high into the sky, and many of the retainers, slaves, and the magister had fallen asleep, my mother slipped into the camp and picked her way to me. 

She had abandoned the tavern, stealing much of the food and light drink, and nearly all of the spices. Her pack was heavily burdened with the provisions, a smaller one containing a cold weather outfit for each of us. Once she had cut through the thick ropes binding me to the other slaves, we slipped away and into the woods. The next day, as we sat high in a tree, tied to the trunk, watched the magister’s carriage march through the woods and onto the road. The only time I ever heard my mother mention the dread wolf out of conflict, and the first time I heard her ever mention the Dalish creators was at that moment. In a voice completely devoid of any tone but vile hatred and vitriol, she whispered,

“Pray the Wolf never finds you, shemlen, for while his teeth devour your soul it will be my arrow plunging down your throat.”

~

“Dinner’s ready!” His god pulled from his reverie. The two sat down to eat, or rather, the god watched his boy, making sure he ate everything in the plastic box. Night settled across the sky, and with a full stomach the god and his boy curled up on the near bare mattress. The window was closed, and bits of steam from the cooking lingered in the air, warming the apartment. Even still, it was the god’s warmth that kept his charge from freezing that night.


End file.
